waiting at the gates of prison
by Constance Greene
Summary: It's always have and never hold — you begin to feel like home. — KyoTohru


**Disclaimer**; Please take careful note that this was done on a time limit, using random pairings and random lyrics as a prompt for a write-off with my friend. Therefore, results are probably not the best of my ability. Fruits Basket does not belong to me. Light spoilers up to the end of the anime.

Aanyway, first Furuba fanfic. :D

**Kyo x Tohru  
**_"All you see is where else you could be when you're at home."_

He's dreaming of Sensei's dojo: the dojo he wishes to inherit when he grows up. The dojo he knows, deep down, that he'll never have – because he is the cat, the Cursed Cat, who soon will be locked up in a dismal prison of his own birthright; but his foolish child-fantasy lets him endure that promise for only so long, before he grows weary and eventually sick of it. It leads him to make-believe. He sees the cherry blossom trees in full bloom outside of the martial arts learning center, their petals falling gracefully from the ash grey branches and floating on the wind. But then he imagines how pretty they'd look in Tohru's hair and everything – his dreams, his hopes, his once future ( if only he were normal ) – collapses, and all he can see is her face.

Her perfect, perfect face. Her soft, pale skin, the delicately sculptured heart-shaped head, and her long brown hair flowing behind her as the balmy spring breeze toys with it. The candy-pink lips that curl gently into a sweet smile that lights up her entire visage with joy. He loved it when she smiled, he could look at it for hours and hours and just stare oh-so intently at the sight, the slight tilt of the lips, the dimples and the lightly blushing cheeks. He hated it when she cried, because then he knew that a smile could never slip through that screen of tears. And how could he, an imperfect being (_monster_) as himself, possibly stay with such a perfect _angel_ like her?

He had to get out, before the obsession got to him.

Just some fresh mountain air would do it. He would build himself a fire and cook and cook and cook to his heart's content ( _what heart?_ ) and take refuge in a cave just like a _real_ animal, not bask in this Japanese-styled prison, lying captive for Akito and the Sohma's liking. Here he was suffocating. This place was claustrophobic, a jail of his own mind, surrounded by idiots: people he hated ( _and people he loved_ ). What he'd give to be out there again with Sensei, Master, fighting away all his fears and insecurities while feeling like the real beast that we was, fighting, thrashing, frothing, groping through the darkness. And tearing himself apart, apart, apart. He'd give away his own soul for it; not that he had one anyway. ( _Because he'd be leaving_ her. )

Here – here was boredom. All he could do was sit and think ( _too much _) and wither away. He could easily do that a few years from now, when he was out of high school and ready to be locked away. He had plenty of time for it – a lifetime, in fact.

So why did Sensei want him to stay?

When he told him that he wouldn't allow Kyo to go back with him to the dojo ( _as he had _promised) his crimson eyes had grown wide and _why, why Master Master I thought you loved me I thought I was your son and now you don't want me I thought I thought I thought—_

"I _hate_ it here! It's killing me!"

The words tore from his throat as an anguished, frustrated cry. His entire youth/life – what was _left_ of it – was draining away before his very eyes and all he could do was try to hold back the tears that threatened to escape from in between his lashes. His hands balled into fists as his temper rose, and rose, and rose to almost uncontrollable heights, as usual, yet he eventually gave up and let his shoulders fall and bent his arm to smudge his eyes against the crook of his elbow, using his light blue jacket as a tissue.

Shishou just smiled. _I get it now. I _hatehim_, too! _Thought Kyo, enraged and embarrassed at his lack of caring.

Of course . . . no one had ever cared. No one except his somewhat foster father and . . . and Tohru.

What if Tohru had overheard his declaration? He wasn't saying that he hated _her_, necessarily, but this _place_ . . . this place she called home . . .

_And home is where the heart is._

_Shut up! Like I have a heart!_

_You do. It's what's screaming inside of you right now to be let out._

_Then I'll . . . rip it out! Let it begone!_

"You're such a cynic. _And_ the typical angst-filled teenage son."

Kyo skipped a blink. "I . . . I'll punch you for that!"

"Then act, don't _think_."

Sensei was telling him the exact opposite of what he had always taught him to do – to think first, strategize, and _then_ act. Kyo usually neglected the 'think' part of the Honourable Steps and acted stupidly without thinking.

"I'm leaving this pathetic excuse for a house! You don't have any control over me; you never have! _You're not my father_!"

With that, he turned around, out the door – flinging himself down the hallway – and flew down the stairs. He breezed past Tohru, whose long hair created a small whirlwind behind her as he passed.

"Ky . . . Kyo? Where are you going?"

Her innocent, confused voice caused him to halt. It was as though everything inside him had stopped, waiting upon her melodic voice.

_All you see is where else you could be when you're at home_. _Haven't you ever thought of those places . . . but _without_ Tohru?_

Earlier, the way he had acted in front of Shishou ( a behavior he was already regretting ) had been how he was _before_ he met Tohru. Since then, everything had changed. Had his old, reckless personality snuck back while he wasn't thinking about the consequences of leaving Tohru?

He stopped and _thought_ about it.

And then he acted.

". . Nowhere."

Kyo begrudgingly turned back towards the stairs. As he climbed the steps, his shoulders slumped, he muttered, "I'm going back to my room." Her wide ocean-blue eyes watched him make his slow retreat. _I'm going back home. _

_It's where you are, isn't it? And I guess . . . that's okay. That's all that matters to me, now._


End file.
